


Black Ice

by Ghislainem70



Series: Ultraverse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Adventure, Angst, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Omegaverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-08 12:53:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1941882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghislainem70/pseuds/Ghislainem70
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is an Alpha under control.  Mycroft Holmes thinks he's the perfect bodyguard to escort his omega brother Sherlock to Siberia to consummate with his contracted mate.  In this omegaverse AU, nobody is quite what they seem.  An homage to Hitchcock's North by Northwest, with a little Notorious for good measure. </p><p> A gift for Cleocalliope for Exchangelock.</p><p>If you enjoy omegaverse with a paranormal flavour, I invite you to give my The Omega Sutra a try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Черный лёд](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8012890) by [Giansar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giansar/pseuds/Giansar)



> Warning for depictions of AU drug use/abuse.

Chapter One.

 

Mycroft Holmes perused the Spartan prospectus with mingled trepidation and resignation. Spartan supplied "elite private security" to individuals with the means to pay for the very best, as well as governmental regimes who found themselves short on real talent. There were some situations where the boilerplate goons simply weren't adequate to the task. Spartan's prospectus offered refreshing alternatives.

Still, Mycroft sighed with dissatisfaction as one dull, predictable candidate after another failed to suit his requirements, which were exacting.

He sat up straighter and took a sip of brandy when he turned to the page offering one John H. Watson. He had the fathomless stare of a man who had seen war and come back not what he had been before, all overlaid with a baseline of . . . despair, that was what it was. Still, this first impression was contradicted by the set of Watson's jaw, signaling, perhaps, an Alpha's determination to endure.   The detailed C.V. established that this was the case for John Watson: service in the Royal Army Medical Corps, Afghanistan, tours of duty in Helmand and Korengal. Many documented acts of personal heroism and bravery. An Alpha male, under a long course of military-grade suppressants, a regimen that he continued to follow per Spartan protocols. A highly skilled doctor and field surgeon, whose hands were perhaps even more capable with a gun than with a surgical knife.

So far, so good. Two of his absolute requirements met: One: Lethal with weapons, and two, skilled in medicine. As to personal issues, this Watson was unattached, never bonded.   A marked preference for betas over omegas but with no long-term entanglements of any kind. Dr. Watson suffered from diagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which was noted as "stable," and which Mycroft did not find a disqualifying factor. It was commonplace, after all, and he had come to understand that with proper management and incentive, it could even render the operative more useful. Hypervigilance and lack of trust bordering on paranoia were, after all, qualities that he cultivated in himself. Watson's PTSD was an asset in his books.

Physically, he was compact, broad-shouldered, and lean. His stature was nothing to some of the other options in the Spartan prospectus, paragons of muscular physicality, experts in martial arts and exotic weaponry. In comparison, John Watson's skill set looked, on paper, almost quaint.

Mycroft touched John Watson's photograph with his fingertip, smiled, and dialed the private number to Spartan's Chief Security Officer.

***

"You're absolutely sure, Sherlock? I'm not saying I can't extract you on the other side, but things would be so much easier if you said so now, if you've changed your mind. You always have done," Mycroft shouted over the screech of the jet's engines. His eccentric omega brother, Sherlock Holmes, had already taken the first step on the stair and was clearly enjoying looming over him, Mycroft thought. He despised any possible outward sign that could be interpreted as the younger omega sibling giving way before the elder Alpha male.  

The wind whipped his brother's dark hair, exposing his gaunt, elegant features and shadow-smudged grey eyes, pale skin with a hectic, almost feverish air. Mycroft knew these signs. So many years of heat suppression in any lesser man would be inducing an omega crisis. Still, Sherlock was clearly in control of himself. As always. As such, Mycroft fully expected Sherlock to have orchestrated some means of a dramatic, last-minute escape.

He fingered the handle of the custom Smythson leather case, waiting for Sherlock's final answer. Sherlock smiled brilliantly, which always disarmed him, and took the opportunity to snatch the case from Mycroft's hands.

"You've made your best case, Mycroft. And ultimately, even I haven't been able to outwit time and pheromones. Tried my best. You might express some gratitude."

But Sherlock's glance flickered to John Watson, who stood by at a respectful distance, giving no sign whatsoever of overhearing them. Mycroft climbed the step next to Sherlock and pressed his lips to his brother's ear to be sure.

"I know you have something up your sleeve, Sherlock -- you always do.   But yes, I am grateful. Consider yourself thanked. And yet you're looking a little flushed, brother. Perhaps it will be you thanking me, in the end."

Sherlock glowered and looked away. "I doubt that, very much. Did you bring the stuff?" He indicated the case.

"Indeed I did. But I've given Watson here strict instructions to administer and monitor your doses. He has authority over your pheromone courses until you're arrived. Give Watson the case, Sherlock."   The pilot was signaling time to depart. They both watched John Watson pull on his pheromone mask.

Mycroft didn't try to wrestle the case away from Sherlock. Instead, with a firm squeeze of his brother's sharp shoulder blades under his habitual coat, Mycroft stepped back.

It was never a good thing to get too close to Sherlock.

Sherlock was, after all, an omega ultra. Literally one in a million.

He dabbed at his lips with a snowy monogramed handkerchief to remove pheromone traces. Even Mycroft, with his iron constitution, wasn't proof against the overwhelming allure of his scent.

Sherlock snorted disdainfully. "I've never needed such assistance before, and I surely won't need it now. He's got 'Army doctor' written all over him. Unless I need field surgery, and probably not even then, Watson can't do anything that I can't do better for myself.   I'm keeping the case. Anyway, I know he's your spy."

Mycroft laughed mirthlessly. "My dear boy. Everyone is."

Sherlock entered the jet, John Watson following close behind with a last wary stare over his shoulder at Mycroft. He felt unaccountably discomfited by the bare Alpha warning that flickered in Watson's eyes, momentary but unmistakable. Sherlock was John Watson's property for the next three days. Mycroft nodded, intending to express restrained approval, but Watson had already disappeared behind the closing door.

Mycroft set his mobile alarm for twelve hours. When the alarm rang, his brother would be flying over Siberia.

###

 

John Watson settled into his seat, slowly checking and re-checking his gear. It was state-of-the-art and frankly excessive even for the stated purpose of this mission: To deliver the omega Sherlock Holmes to his Alpha mate-by-contract, one Viktor Antonov, one of the oligarchs created by the savagely Darwinian Russian free market. His business was diamond mining. Once, John had once been assigned by Spartan to an oil oligarch from Moscow, cruising the streets of Knightsbridge in an armoured Rolls Royce Phantom with his beta mistresses in tow. Their omegas, of course, were never allowed to be seen in public. The man had been powerful, vulgar, and dull.

Watson examined one of the very sharp pistols he had been supplied as he attempted to scrutinize his sullen charge more closely from the corner of his eye. Spartan had supplied him a mission dossier, but he had instantly discerned was written by someone with a very personal interest in Sherlock Holmes. He figured it was the brother, Mycroft. Sherlock Holmes was apparently a freelance forensic scientist, with a specialty in solving unsolvable crimes, especially murder. He was unbonded, unbred, and his first heat had revealed him to be a rare omega ultra, whose mutated scent could literally drive an Alpha mad with desire, and delivered untold ecstatic pleasures to the Alpha's brain during heat.

The dossier revealed that Sherlock had attempted suicide on the occasion of his first heat. He had also killed the Alpha who had attempted to breed him.

As the law made necessary exceptions for self-defense in omega ultras, in the end Sherlock faced no legal consequence but to follow a course of custom suppressants until such time as he should choose to mate.

The Holmes family had received many lucrative offers for Sherlock's marriage contract over the years, which had obviously been declined. The tabloids regularly reported on the going rate for omega ultra contracts, the most recent being the sum of twenty million pounds to secure a famous omega ultra, Ayesha, who was a Bollywood film star. Apparently, John thought with a spark of scorn, this Viktor Antonov had fortune enough to make an offer that even Sherlock Holmes couldn't refuse.

After a few minutes in flight, an extremely attractive beta female attendant offered them drinks and a light meal.   Sherlock was absorbed in his laptop and scowled, attempting to drive the beta away with an aristocratic wave of his long, pale hand. She was momentarily stunned by the scent that wafted from his fingertips.

"I'm sorry, sir, they did warn me, but-- " She stood rooted to the spot, her chest heaving in lungfuls of scent. She reached out, seeming to want to touch Sherlock's bare wrist peeking out from the cuffs of his coat, and Sherlock moved to swat it away, but John Watson was somehow already between them.

"-but you were curious," Sherlock snapped. He seemed to notice John Watson for the first time, his eyes focusing on John's hand wrapped firmly around the unfortunate beta's arm.   A strange little ripple made itself felt in the region of his belly. Probably he needed to eat something. He blinked, and Watson momentarily licked his lips below his mask.

"Remove her this instant," Sherlock ordered, his voice acid, ignoring his stomach.

John nodded easily. Sherlock noted his outward calm and the dominance of his Alpha stance, legs spread that few inches wider than what he could readily observe was his normal bearing. He watched John's retreat as he lightly maneuvered the beta away from Sherlock's person, then returned to his research. He still had a lot to absorb before they landed.

"Wear your pheromone mask, luv," John admonished, not unkindly, as he marched the beta to the back of the jet. "It's going to be a long flight."

###

 

"Aren't you going to sleep?" John asked. They were nine hours into the flight, and Sherlock Holmes showed no signs of sleeping, eating, or doing anything other than fidget with his laptop. John had firmly looked away when he realized he was watching the light from the screen cast a glow over his face, showing the shadows under his eyes and cheekbones.     Omega ultra, he reminded himself. He was due for a suppressant injection, but he told himself he needed to keep his Alpha edge until Sherlock was safely delivered to Antonov.

"Noooo," Sherlock drawled absently.

John groaned inwardly. There was another Alpha operative, MacKay, in the back of the jet to relieve him so that they could complete the 3-day journey in shifts. Mycroft, sensitive to Sherlock's near-phobic lack of tolerance for other people regardless of permutation, had assigned John to two 8-hour shifts per day, and MacKay one shift.

"Look, it's going to be three days till we get to Antonov's compound. Unless I take stimulants, which I don't care to do, I'm not going to be able to stay awake that long. When I sleep, MacKay will stand watch. I need you to sleep at some point, too. I promised Mr. Holmes I'd get you there in prime condition." He winced at how it sounded -- as though Sherlock Holmes was just a piece of property, an omega ultra commodity.

Sherlock gave no sign of hearing him but his eyes narrowed at that, and he knew that he really was listening. John shrugged and settled back in his seat, flipping idly though a fashion magazine in the seat pocket.   Here was a full page photo spread shot in a decaying rococo palace, glamorous omegas posing in what even John would see were costly couture fashions. The omegas were draped across the lap of a rugged-looking silver-haired Alpha in a tuxedo. His deep-set brown eyes were covetous, owning everything. He was clearly not a professional model. It was beautifully shot, edgy and erotic.

His eye was caught by the enormous diamonds around the necks of the omegas, collaring them just where their Alpha would bite. The Alpha had his fingers under the necklaces, pulling so that the stones dug into the omega's flesh a little. The stones had a blackish-grey tinge, as though filled with smoke.   Still, they framed the faces of the omegas with an exotic glitter. Above the models, John read:

_"Black Ice, by Antonov Gems. Conflict-free Russian black diamonds. A unique symbol of the darker side of love."_

John looked more closely at the face of the silver-haired Alpha, then flipped to the thumbnail photo in his dossier. There was no doubt.

The man in the magazine was Viktor Antonov, owner of Antonov Gems, Sherlock Holmes' contracted mate.

He slowly tore the page from the magazine, and committed the man's face to memory. Then he crumpled it in his fist. The noise attracted Sherlock Holmes' attention and he swore under his breath.

"Why did you do that?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the torn magazine.

"You need to eat something," John retorted, avoiding the question. It was embarrassing but nevertheless predictable behaviour. Sherlock was his to guard for the duration of the journey. He couldn't help being possessive.   He really couldn't do his job properly if he wasn't, he reminded himself. He reached in his pocket for his bottle of stimulants, and popped two.

It would be better to just stay awake, after all.

Sherlock surprised him by not arguing with that, and so he signaled for the beta to bring them their meal. She approached cautiously, now fully masked. John stood and took the trays from her.

"I'll do it. Carry on," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

 

There was an actual dining room in the jet, and after staring a moment at the polished mahogany table set with proper silver and fine china, Sherlock surprised John by courteously inviting him to sit, although he proceeded to sit at the far opposite end of the table to John, saying nothing more and ignoring John altogether while picking at his meal without relish.

There was a huge vase anchored to the table between them, containing sprays of miniature white orchids. It nearly blocked their view of one another. Traditional mating offering, John thought. From Antonov. He watched Sherlock withdraw the white card tucked in with the stems and read it. John removed his mask and ate a bite of unexpectedly delicious roast beef, and didn't think at all about what the card said. Sherlock folded it and put it in his pocket. Through the veil of orchids John thought his expression looked tense, or even a little afraid, which was also understandable. Hadn't had a single heat since adolescence. Always aware that his ultra status made him a target, a prize. He wondered how the man managed to have a career that involved solving murders. No doubt he had to be around police officers, mostly Alphas. His suppressant regimen must be unbelievably effective. Most ultras never left home until they were mated. It just wasn't safe.

"I'm supposed to give you an injection now. It's . . . better if it's not on an empty stomach," John said. The series of injections would bring Sherlock to the brink of heat, right on time for delivery to his contracted mate. John was worried, looking at this frail-seeming omega, that he wouldn't have the stamina. He swallowed hard and pushed the thought away.

"I've eaten," Sherlock said. He indicated his plate, where precisely three bites were missing, one for each of the dishes.

"Not enough. Soon, you'll be burning up energy, and you need to be-- " He stopped, his face hot. "Sorry. Just let me know when you're ready."

Sherlock held out his hand. "Give it to me. I can do it myself. I always have before. Well, nearly always." His face was proud but John could see that he really, really didn't want him to give him the injection. John wavered.   But his eye was drawn to the numerous black spheres set prominently in the ceiling of the jet, and he imagined the undoubted numerous others that were invisible. They were being watched, and he knew who was watching.

"I have my orders," John said. "And soon you won't be thinking so clearly. You need me to control it and to keep to the schedule. You're a smart one, you know all about this."

"Smart! What would you know? Only what my brother tells you, obviously."

"Look. I'm going to do mine, and then I'm going to do yours. If you don't promise to cooperate I'm going to have to confine you and do it anyway. You don't want that, do you?"

Sherlock sneered. "I'd like to see you try."

"No," John said carefully, "you really wouldn't." His best Alpha stare did nothing to quell the omega ultra arrogance and attraction coming off of Sherlock now in waves, and so he backed away, put his mask back on, and rolled up his sleeve. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him as he pumped the suppressant serum into the vein in the crook of his arm and a hard, angry twisted thing lodged in his chest retreated a bit. But not the swell in his cock. Puzzling, his mask was working, he couldn't smell a thing. He put his thumb over the blood that welled from the place where the needle had pierced the skin, noticing Sherlock's avid attention on the crimson spot rather than his swelling cock. He excused himself to carefully wash and sterilize in the little lavatory.

He hadn't been a moment when he heard Sherlock shout "Watson!" over a crash of china. John wrenched the door open and came out brandishing his gun, though to shoot up here would be madness.

The other operative, MacKay, was awake. He had a massive Alpha erection rutting against Sherlock's thigh and a knife at Sherlock's throat. His pheromone mask was off and his eyes were wide and wild, lost. Sherlock had got in a deep slice with one of the knives from the table, but now it lay on the carpet at his feet amongst the broken plates, shining with fresh red blood. John thought he could see the pulse in Sherlock's throat, the skin there almost translucent.

MacKay would kill anyone and anything that got between him and Sherlock.   That was fine, John thought, because he felt just the same. John ignored the furious glitter in Sherlock's eyes, black pupils swallowing blue-grey irises, because it reminded him of Antonov's black diamonds, and it made him angrier. Everything was making him angrier. He took a step closer, knowing that MacKay wouldn't really kill Sherlock until he'd had his taste. He needed him to come after him.

"He's not your omega, MacKay," John said, knowing that he wouldn't process these simple words but the meaning in his tone would be felt. MacKay grimaced and pushed Sherlock behind him, showing the gun in his other hand, his finger squeezing the trigger.

John, fortunately, had something for his other hand, too. He seized the knife from the sheath at the small of his back and flung it as MacKay's bullet flew, creased John's temple and shredded one of the seats in a small explosion of plastic and cushion debris. Sherlock was sweeping MacKay's legs out from under him as John's knife landed with a wet thunk in MacKay's eye, dropping him like a stone.

"Are you hurt?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Before John could stop him, Sherlock reached for the bloody table knife, knelt over MacKay, and slit his throat. His heart must have still been beating because arterial spray hit Sherlock in the face.

Somewhere, the beta was screaming, and the pilot announced immediate lockdown and an emergency landing.

Sherlock and John stared at each other over Mackay's body as his blood slowly leaked out across the plush carpet.

# # #

 

"Don't touch me," Sherlock whispered, backing away as John moved to secure them both for lockdown. There was a panic room in the back of the jet and under these circumstances, it was mandatory for him to take Sherlock there until they landed. John made a show of putting up his gun and backing away. He needed Sherlock to come with him to the panic room, one way or another.

"I won't touch you, all right?" He knew he sounded like he was wheedling a frightened cat, and figured Sherlock would resent it. But Sherlock was just staring at him with those wide grey-black eyes. "I'm wearing my mask, see? You saw me take my suppressant.   Just go to the back. Don't make me force you."

Sherlock nodded, and John followed him at a respectful distance, entered the code to the panic room. Sherlock looked back at him, right into his face, too close, so that John could see the individual droplets of blood clinging to his skin.

Sherlock hesitated on the stair. His eyes gleamed.   "I think based upon recent events that we can handle anything that comes at us. I don't want to go in there."

John's heart thundered in his chest. Sherlock saying "we" and "us" was doing strange things to his almost-forgotten heart. But there was no question of doing what he had to do to keep Sherlock -- the client --- safe.

"I won't touch you, I swear," he said again. "But we're going in there, one way or another."

Sherlock bit his lip and entered the panic room, and John closed the door behind them.

###

Sherlock instantly went to the farthest corner of the room, sat on the floor, pulled his knees up in the circle of his arms and hid his face. He had the bloody knife in his hands.

The panic room tiny, but it was luxuriously furnished like a modern hotel room. The farthest corner of the room was still nearly within John's arm's reach. He turned away from Sherlock and wet a towel in the miniscule sink.

"Wipe your face, at least," he said. His throat had a knot in it, he wanted to wipe Sherlock's face himself. The knot painfully reminded him of the knot at the base of his cock. It hadn't had a workout in years. Military-grade suppressants, continued with Spartan, made knotting impossible. Or it ought to. He thought he felt a deep twinge down there. He thanked god for his mask. Also, he could hear the thrum of a powerful ventilator, pulling the air out of the room and no doubt filtering out Sherlock's scent.

Sherlock hesitated, and John wondered whether he was one of those omega ultras who had a servant to do everything for them. But Sherlock took the damp towel in his fingertips and proceeded to carefully wipe the blood from his face.   He examined the bloody towel with interest before handing it back to John. He closed his eyes.

"That's the second one," Sherlock said.

John knew what he meant from reading Sherlock's dossier, but he didn't want to let on.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock stared up at him intently. "You know perfectly well what I mean. Mycroft gave you a file on me. I know what's in the file, I hacked it this morning. I saw you reading it earlier and the pattern of your eye movements revealed that you were scanning for the juicy bits. Interestingly, for you the juicy bits were the parts about my murder case, not the bits about my ultra status."

"Um, well -- that's amazing. I'm supposed to be watching you, not the other way around. I'm sorry I turned my back on MacKay. In the Army you learn to trust your troop. Guess I was wrong."

Sherlock looked away. "You could trust him, under any other circumstance. It's my fault."

"You mean. . . because you're an ultra." It had to be the stimulant tabs that were making his head spin and his heart pound. Even so, he actually felt like talking to Sherlock, which was rather strange under the circumstances, because lately -- okay, for a long time -- he hadn't much felt like talking to anyone at all. He didn't want to think about the consequences with Spartan (and worse, with Mycroft Holmes) of Mackay's death. Could easily have been me, he thought, horrified to imagine what would have happened if it had been him cut down, MacKay having his way.

"You're just like everyone else, then," Sherlock said bitterly. "' _An ultra'._

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Yes you did. Everyone does. I've tried to be many things in my life, but an ultra is the last, and the least of it. It's just a couple of stands of my DNA, and scent molecules that short-circuit your brains and electrify the hardware of your cocks. You Alphas never can understand that."

"Okay..." John's head was spinning now. It was probably a very bad idea to be confined with Sherlock in such close quarters. The precise, deliberate way his tongue clicked when he said "cock," he would be wanking to that for the rest of his life. The pheromone mask was guaranteed against ultra scent, but the Army had taught him that sometimes gear let you down. He tightened the straps on the mask. "Then... why did you accept the mating contract with Antonov? A Russian? Siberia, of all places?" He tried but failed to keep Alpha dominance and jealousy out of his tone.

"He only is staying in Siberia for a few months. For his work.   Diamond mining, you know that from his file.   The rest of the year he spends in Moscow, London and Paris. If I have my way --"

John glowered a little at this but kept his face impassive.

"-- he'll move to London permanently and I'll keep up with my work."

John didn't have to say anything about the ridiculousness of that. No ultras worked after mating. Their mates' possessiveness of their treasure was unconquerable.

"And my suppressants aren't working well anymore. Maybe a year, less probably, and I'll be immune. There isn't anything else, and believe me I have access to things that nobody else does. It's finally going to happen to me. . . and nothing to be done about it. I'm going to start having heats whether I want them or not. Antonov is, or was, an actual scientist, you know. Geology. Not my field, but still. He's the only one of all the offers that was, you know. . .   Most scientists know better than to even think about going for an ultra, even if they had the means."

"Because it'll put them right out of their minds," John said. "No more science."

"Allegedly. I suppose I'll be finding out. Two more days."

John thought of the picture of Antonov in the fashion magazine, debonair, decadent, and rather cruel-looking. Nothing like a scientist. He shoved away the image of Antonov's hands on Sherlock's seemingly fragile body. Sherlock was much stronger than he looked.

Sherlock scanned the panic room. There was a little shelf filled with the latest bestselling novels and political memoirs. A television. A bed. A microscopic lavatory, even tinier kitchen. All the necessary comforts until they landed. But Sherlock was suddenly turning everything upside down. The little room looked like a tornado had hit it. John finally grabbed his wrist to stop the destruction, and Sherlock yanked his hand away as though he'd been bitten by a snake.

"No laptop! My work."

"It can wait a few hours."

Sherlock glared balefully, and John's heart sank when he admitted to himself that his only impulse was to kiss him. He was doomed. He actually covered his eyes.

But there was another problem.

"Your injections. They're out there."  

Sherlock's injections were the opposite of suppressants, a variety of Heatwave, the patented pheromone cocktail that induced a custom-designed heat. This particular heatwave contained Antonov's own pheromone essences, with other hormones to bring Sherlock right to the brink of unquenchable heat. John had been given to understand that Antonov required that Sherlock be delivered to him in peak condition, ready to instantly enjoy the ultra heat to which his contract entitled him without delay after Sherlock's long, long heat drought.

It was for this reason, Mycroft had told him at his interview, that he needed a bodyguard who was also a medical doctor. John gritted his teeth in a semblance of a smile.

"They are, aren't they?" Sherlock said with an enigmatic smile in return. "I've only had a third of the dose."

"You won't be ready when we get there, then. You know what that means, I assume?"

"You're the doctor," Sherlock purred, which John knew had to be his Alpha brain getting the better of him because Sherlock wouldn't provoke him like that, he knew it.   John's cock stood at attention at the sound, apparently trying to seek contact with that lavish mouth through his trousers. "You tell me."

"It means," John said, swallowing over the growing lump in his throat, "that you won't be ready to . . . breed with Antonov. Not for a few days, anyway."

"How unfortunate," Sherlock said, his cut-glass enunciation, 'un-for-tune-ate', going right to his head, down through his core and straight to the tip of his cock, where he was vividly imagining that tongue right now. He squeezed his eyes shut again and put his hands in his pockets, where they brushed his massive erection.

"No doubt we'll be on the ground soon but we do seem to be circling. Meanwhile, I require a distraction and from the looks of things, " here Sherlock looked pointedly at the bulge in John's trousers -- although he seemed to be completely uninterested in touching it, thank god --   "so do you, if you're going to keep that promise not to touch me."

John's throat was painfully dry, and so it sounded like a mere croak when he gasped, "What did you have in mind?"

"Tell me about the war, John Watson."

John's eyes flew open and his erection subsided. Sherlock's face was intent but somehow gentler than he had seen him, and he bristled. He didn't want anybody's pity, least of all Sherlock Holmes, omega ultra, for god's sake.

"What--" he stammered, the stammering sometimes came back when he talked about Afghanistan. "What do you want-- to know?"

"Why not start with your shoulder? You've got a wound there -- I hacked Mycroft's file on you, too, you know but I can see it in the way you carry your left arm, the angle. But it doesn't say how."

John took a deep breath. "You really want to know?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes shining for all the world, John thought, like a child ready to hear a fairy tale. But this story wasn't anything like that.

"Okay. Um. I've never talked about it. Not really, not the truth. Okay, here goes.. . I was in Afghanistan, in Helmand, and one night --"

The panic room door flew open and the copilot was standing over them with a pheromone mask and a gun.

"We've made an emergency landing in Moscow. You're going the rest of the way by train, courtesy of Mister Antonov."

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 

The train was a private one, naturally, running on the same track as the Trans-Siberian Railroad. When they boarded, Sherlock was escorted by new bodyguards to a private spa suite to "get cleaned up." One of the guards thrust a mobile into John's hand and it immediately started vibrating. He answered it.

"Antonov wants to hire you personally," Mycroft said in a pleased tone, as though he were a professor and John a very bright young student. John bit his tongue. "We've both watched the video. Spartan will have to answer for MacKay but you've done very well. I am grateful for your protection of my brother. Your self-control is admirable, Captain Watson."

"I'm not a captain anymore. Not a doctor either. You can just call me John."

"Very well. John. You were in some very close quarters with my brother and never laid a finger on him. Astounding. I know you take suppressants, but still. You've proven yourself. Mr. Antonov wants a capable Alpha he can trust when he's away on business."

John's head was still spinning but he got the gist of it. Siberia. London. Paris. Moscow. Sherlock. Breeding with Antonov for the indefinite future. He had no doubt at all that no matter what Antonov's intentions, once he had a taste, he was never going back to his old, workaday life. He would be as enslaved as any other Alpha who had a taste of the ultra. The most powerful drug known to humankind.

"I -- I can't. I can't do it. Tell him no." He couldn't even say the name.

Mycroft was silent. "I see," he said smoothly. "Well, your contract requires you to deliver Sherlock to Antonov at his compound, at the mine. I'll ensure your a safe return, by jet or by train, as you like.   Did you know, John, that you can take the train all the way to the coast, and the ferry will deliver you to Japan? I presume you have no difficulty with fulfilling your contract? It's a matter of only two days now to the mine."

John looked down the narrow hallway to the closed door where Sherlock had been taken to bathe. There, he was naked, and hot water was running--

"Yeah," he said, "I think I can cope with two more days."

 

###

 

At night, John was surprised to see out the window not endless empty plains of ice and snow, as he had always imagined Siberia, but endless dark pine forests dusted with snow.

Sherlock dismissed the new bodyguard, Ivan, and settled in the velvet-upholstered bench opposite John. John couldn't help admiring how gorgeous he looked, freshly showered and wearing a sharp new suit. He was grateful that the man wasn't wandering around in pajamas or god forbid, some sort of robe that would fall open....

Their knees touched with an undeniable electric jolt. John moved his knee. Sherlock was staring at his own knee, and rubbed it with his long fingers. John expelled a breath sharply, because of course he couldn't think of anything else but those fingers rubbing him anywhere, everywhere.

Why had he agreed to this? Typical Alpha territorialism, sheer possessive stubbornness. Loneliness. He hadn't ever had it this bad, not by a long shot. Still, Sherlock was an ultra, and that had to be the answer.

Sherlock's knee brushed his again, and he had to bite the inside of his lip to stop himself actually moaning at the touch. That touch had been sold to Antonov, the highest bidder. Sherlock was bought and paid for and it wasn't his place to sully the goods.

"Stop it," he said sternly. This was the voice that had whipped his underlings into shape in Afghanistan, and it had the same effect now. Sherlock folded his long legs under him and regarded him, fingers steepled under his chin.

"I'm-- I'm sorry," Sherlock said, and John could swear he was blushing. He looked away, out the window, watching the trees race by.

"I should give you your injection now," John said.

"You should," Sherlock agreed. "But I already did it. I asked Ivan to bring me the case. I did it in the bath. It seemed. . . convenient. See?" He proffered the empty hypodermic, just a few tiny droplets of Antonov's own pheromones left clinging to the inside of the barrel.

"I see," John said. He pictured Sherlock laying back in the bath, flushed from the heat and the steam, slowly plunging the needle into the flesh of the soft inner skin of the crook of the elbow. He was a doctor, never in his life had such an image held any interest for him let alone a sexual charge, but he was getting hard at the thought.   He ought to ask Sherlock to roll up his sleeve so he could see the injection puncture, put on a bandage and cotton wool if it was bleeding a little. He would take off his mask, and Sherlock's scent would rise up and he would drink it in. . . .

"You're very diligent to remember," he said sourly. He had been fantasising that Sherlock really didn't want to go with Antonov after all. He remembered Mycroft Holmes at the airport:

 _Are absolutely sure, Sherlock. . . things would be so much easier if you said so now, if you've changed your mind. You always have done_.

"I have an excellent memory, Watson."

"Call me John, your brother does," he said.

"John," Sherlock repeated. John couldn't bear the sound of his name rolling off of those unbelievable lips, no one had a mouth like that. Not in real life. He stood up abruptly.

"Ah, I ought to catch a nap. You should, too. Nothing to see out there, anyway. I'll be back in half an hour."

There were half a dozen security types on the train, wearing the Antonov Mine uniform. Hulks, all of them. But so far, not a hint of impropriety. He caught the strong acrid scent of industrial-strength suppressants on them all. He knew he smelled the same to them. And to Sherlock.

Sherlock was watching out the window again, but John glimpsed his eyes, watching him by his reflection in the glass. "I'm not tired. And there's always something to see, John, if one is observant."

 

###

 

In his private sleeping car, he bolted the door and pushed a blanket around the edges for good measure. He didn't want anyone to hear this.

He yanked his trousers down and his cock sprang into his hand with a life of its own. He'd never felt this big, not in heat, not ever. Panting, he felt gently around his swollen head, the veins that stood out under the smooth skin of his hardness, stretched so tight that he felt actual pain, and he was grateful. It felt like something that should hurt, obsession with an ultra. He deserved for this to hurt. He would never have this. He could almost imagine that his scent was caressing him. Impossible, of course.   It seemed like the crowning moment of his life that was filled with far too little of ever getting anything that he wanted, or maybe the problem was that he hadn't ever really wanted what was on offer. Until now. Of course this wasn't on offer. Sherlock would never be his.

He gave himself a good, hard stroke. He admitted to himself that he needed to imagine that it was Sherlock. It was wrong, it was hopeless, it was even a form of self-torture. But in two days he would leave Sherlock behind with his contracted mate, and never see him again. He wasn't going to make it even that long without relieving his Alpha lust. He needed at least the illusion of satisfaction. The suppressants were wearing off and he had a secret.

He hadn't taken his last injection, and his cock was telling him to never, ever take another.

He stupidly lacked any kind of lubricant, but so much precum was spilling out of his slit, almost pooling in his palm, his hand moved smoothly over his painfully rigid shaft, and he closed his eyes, picturing those long pale fingers, that mouth on his, how he would make it open and take his tongue. He imagined standard Army-issue porn images -- bending his omega over, opening him up for the first time, hearing him scream with orgasm when his head battered his wet hole and knocked hard at the door of his womb until his knot forced them together for hours of mindless pleasure.

But that wasn't doing it. His cock actually drooped a little. Maybe the suppressants were somehow roaring back after all.   His body was bent on betrayal.   He bit his lip, pictured something else, something new, something novel. Like Sherlock was novel, like nothing and no one he had ever met or even imagined. Sherlock was under him, his face flushed, and John was showing him how to touch his cock for the first time, and they were taking it very slowly, and Sherlock was exploring it delicately with those long fingers, examining it intently, the way John had already noticed he looked at anything that interested him. The very idea of Sherlock being interested in his cock was driving him right back to insane hardness. He had never been so present, so alive, in the presence of an omega in heat. But Sherlock took a long look at the clear fluid gleaming in the palm of his hand and licked it curiously, then leaned down to touch the tip of his head with his tongue, his fingers wandering over his perineum, caressing his swollen balls, testing around the edges of the heat of his knot.

 _"Can I taste it, John,"_ Sherlock asked with poignant, tentative sincerity and he said _yesyesyes_ and there was an incredible scent enveloping him in a fog of pleasure as John came hard in his palm, shouting with the contractions of a deep, hard orgasm, hoping that the blanket and the rattle of the train covered his cries.

It barely took the edge off, but it would have to be enough. This was all he was ever going to get.

He lay back against the narrow bed, panting, and consulted his watch.

Thirty -one minutes.

His body wanted heat that lasted for days. His few pathetic minutes of stolen pleasure were a joke. He was a joke, probably. He pulled up his trousers, went to the lavatory to wash up, and marched back down to where Sherlock was still watching out the train window, displacing one of the bodyguards hovering over him. He had a mask, but was he trying to catch a whiff anyway?

"Get another goddam mask and get away from him," John growled. "I'll take over."

He dropped back down into the bench across from Sherlock. Dawn was touching the treetops, turning the snow a rosy pink.

"You're late," Sherlock said softly.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

 

Sherlock finally did doze off, to John's amazement. Two of the guards passed by, muttering, "I need it, I've only got the twelve hours," and he saw a wad of cash passed surreptitiously between them. He knew what this was about. Glancing back at Sherlock's sleeping form, he followed them to the canteen car.

"We're stopping, right?" He had heard something about refueling at the next town.

"Right," said Ivan. "But you're not supposed to get off."

The men chuckled a little.

"Fuck off," John said equably. "We're all Alphas here."

"Not all," Ivan said.

"You're going off at the next stop for a little extracurricular, huh?" John asked, his face bland. He had been a solider and from the looks of them, so had these men. Some things never changed.

"Yeah, what of it? As long as the Princess gets to the boss in one piece."

"Show some respect," John said as he clocked Ivan hard. Ivan leered and spat blood and punched him right back. They grappled and threw punches and generally tried to tear each other to pieces before Ivan cried mercy and his friends pulled them apart. Vodka was passed around.

John’s knuckles were split and it felt fantastic. Fighting was a fair substitute for fucking for frustrated Alphas. He had been surprised that they hadn’t all jumped him, but the Alphas kept their distance. They had heard about MacKay.

"So what's in town? I'm a doctor, you know."

"Ha! This is Siberia, Watson. Not London. We have our own kinds of cocktails out here. It all depends on what you need."

"I don't need anything."

"Maybe," Ivan said. "You seem like a man that has it together. But if you want to let loose, have a party, you can come out for a while. Gregori here can stay with His Highness.” Ivan smiled through his split lip to show he was kidding around this time.  “Don’t worry. Gregori has a brain injury from the war. Can’t smell a thing. Anyway, he only likes Alphas.”

Gregori grunted and inspected John carefully. “Come see me if you get tired of the omega,” he said, all Alpha lust and menace in a muscular blond package.

“Cover me for a few hours,” John said.  “And we’ll see.”

 

# # #

 

The problem, of course, was that he had no money at all. Mycroft would to pay him, and handsomely, when he got to the other side. Until then, he didn’t have a single ruble and the places he planned to go in the town definitely wouldn’t take a credit card, even assuming his weren’t maxed.

But he had an idea.

Antonov’s train was more than just a plush ride for his omega through the Siberian wilderness. It carried cargo, and he knew what it was. He had seen Ivan check a vault in the last car several times. There was a long silver key hanging from Ivan's belt and a keypad on the steel door. The key he already had in his pocket, he’d grabbed it during their fight.

He heard the others milling around the door, getting ready to disembark. They were stopped in a tiny Siberian mining town, a day’s journey still from Antonov’s compound. They might have been on another planet.

“You coming, Doctor?” Ivan called. They all had had their share of vodka and were on their way to make the most of their brief 'shore leave.'

“Right behind you,” he called back.

“Minsk Bar, Alexander Street,” Ivan said.  “Can’t miss it.”

###

 

Twenty minutes later, John was no closer to figuring out what to do about the combination lock. He had a fire axe, though, and was contemplating hacking the vault open, a foolish plan that was completely the product of his Alpha brain, marinating in hormones. He knew better than to give in. It was as stupid idea. He twisted the silver key in the lock anyway.

“Do that again and you’ll trip the alarm,” Sherlock said quietly, a careful arm’s length from his shoulder.

“Fuck,” John groaned.  “You aren’t supposed to be here. Go back with Gregori.”

“He’s drunk, and I’m not a prisoner,” Sherlock said, his eyes locked on the vault.   “Stand back.”

John obeyed, watching Sherlock bend over the vault. He had somehow changed from the suit into a robe, and it was falling open just as John had imagined, just as he had feared. The outlines of his body looked sleek and smooth, and his hand itched to run along its length. He sighed. Worse and worse. He felt stupid standing there with an axe, classic Alpha. But then Sherlock hadn’t seemed nervous of him at all, hardly glanced at the axe. John unaccountably resented this, and wished Sherlock had seen him fighting with Ivan, seen what a real Alpha was made of. He wouldn’t ever pay for an omega, not even an ultra. He swallowed bile, rising fury at Sherlock selling himself to Antonov.

When he came back to his senses, Sherlock had the door of the vault open and was examining its contents. He couldn’t see much past the taller man’s back except the glitter of diamonds, and Sherlock was doing something with his hands that he couldn’t see.

“Was there something you wanted?” Sherlock asked gravely, the door still open.  “There’s not a lot of time.”

“How did you open that door?”

“Talcum powder on the keypad. Child’s play, as long as you have the key. Thank you for that.”

John stared into the open vault. Tray after tray of uncut diamonds, mostly black but a few, clear as ice. Just one or two of the small ones would get him what he needed.

“Close your eyes, Sherlock,” he said, and plucked two from the velvet tray, blushing with shame. He had never stolen anything before in his entire life.

Sherlock reached out and grabbed his wrist, hard. He had been right. Sherlock was a lot stronger than he looked.

“You don’t have to do this,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, I do,” John said stubbornly, humiliated, yanking his wrist free. The skin burned where Sherlock’s fingers had gripped it.  “Go away, Sherlock.”

“If it’s money you need, I’m sure I can get you whatever you require when we get to the compound. And my brother, of course –“

“Forget it, Sherlock. It’s too late. Just—forget, forget this happened, if you can. If you can’t, I’ll understand that too.” He wondered what the prison sentence would be if he was caught with the stolen diamonds, and shivered. Siberian jails would be very cold, he imagined.

He shoved the stolen diamonds deep into his pocket and wrenched open the door that led out to the snowy platform. Snowflakes drifted in and dusted Sherlock’s glossy curls, and he wanted to stroke them away. He impulsively pulled his mask free and took a deep inhale of Sherlock’s scent that predictably hit him like a shot of pure jet fuel in his veins as he dropped to the platform.

“Shut the bloody door,” he shouted. Sherlock, wide-eyed, pulled it closed in his face and barred it from the inside. John resolutely turned his back on the train, Sherlock’s exotic, toxic scent followed him in the thin freezing air, and he felt Sherlock’s eyes following him out the window as he marched toward the town, dark grey huddled buildings against the winter sunlight, fading fast. There was warm light and raucous laughter spilling from the doorway of the Minsk Bar, and John went inside.

 

# # #

 

There was a tough gangster crew in the back of the bar, selling off-label and black market pheromones. John waited his turn, making sure nobody was overhearing him. Ivan and the others had long since drifted to another, even cheaper bar down the road.

“You wanna ride or you wanna chill?” The gang leader mumbled. High on his own goods.

“I want a fast ride. And a hard one.”

“Ho Ho! No doubt! But you’ve been on the military juice, it's not gonna fly. Come back in a month, mate. Dry out.”

John pulled his gun and carefully set one of the black diamonds on the table. “Why don’t you just give me what I want and let me worry about whether it does the job?”

About five other men in the bar drew guns too, but the gangster just threw a baggie filled with a few black crystals on the table. He held the diamond to the light.

“What is this stuff?” John asked.

“That there’s Black Ice. Heatwave, Siberian style. Just like you said. Stuff will blast your blood, mate. Fast. And hard. Your omega won’t know what hit him. It is a him, right? You have the look. You’ll have the power of ten Alphas, if that’s what you really want – right, boys?” The others all muttered their agreement.  “Just be careful.”

“I know how to be careful. You shoot it?”

“Yeah. No snorting this stuff.”

John pocketed the Black Ice. “One more thing. Got any Clean Sweep?”

The gangster held out his hand and John gave him the other diamond. A baggie full of pale blue crystals was tossed and John caught it.

“State-of-the art. That there’s Pure Ice. Pushes your blood back, pure as a newborn baby, no matter what you’ve been jacking it with.”

John knew better than to ask anything more. He pocketed the blue crystals and trudged back to the train. With Sherlock’s scent still bubbling in his veins like fireworks, he had forgotten to take a single drink.

 

# # #

 

Back on the train, Sherlock kept his distance, and John was glad. In the privacy of his sleeping car, he carefully melted the Black Ice and shot up. Like stealing, he had never done anything like this in his life. He felt the black drug seeping through him, rendering him into nothing more – and nothing less – than primal, unadulterated Alpha. The accumulated effect of suppressants melted away and his Alpha pheromones were amplified, almost beyond his control. He took a deep breath.   He could do this.

The train lurched away from the little town, and he steeled himself to prepare for Antonov.   What would Antonov do to Sherlock?

Nothing, he thought. Antonov would do nothing. Nobody was going to do anything to Sherlock but him. He considered pulling Sherlock off the train here, running away. But it was the middle of actual Siberia, and the town was too small to offer much in the way of cover. The others said that an arctic storm was coming.

 

###

 

The train pulled into the final station. A modern mining facility and a walled compound, Antonov’s residence, hung on the rim of a huge pit mine. A snowstorm was gathering, and every cell in his body was longing to seize Sherlock, to subdue him with an Alpha bite, to guard him from all others.

If he did that, they would lock him up. He had concocted a masking spray, a common enough Army trick for Alphas that had had a little too much fun on leave. It would probably only last a few hours, and that would have to be enough.

The doors to the train opened, and Antonov was here. He had eyes for no one but Sherlock; who was dressed warmly in a new astrakhan fur coat that matched Antonov’s. Sherlock was so gorgeous that John could barely look at him. Sherlock was flushed and seemed on the brink of heat but John wasn’t fooled. He apparently was a rather accomplished actor. He hadn’t been taking those injections to prime him for his heat with Antonov, John knew it in his heart. He hadn’t taken an injection since the day he met John Watson. That had to mean something, and now John was prepared to find out what it was.

Antonov held a collar of black diamonds just like in the magazine, clutched in his gloved hand.

“Welcome, Sherlock,” Antonov said with a broad, greedy smile. He wasn’t masked, and he took a deep, proprietary inhale at the Sherlock’s neck, the scenting protocol of a mating pair. He gasped in unrestrained ecstasy at the ineffable scent of his new mate and offered his own neck to Sherlock. Sherlock stood rigid, his neck stiff and unyielding as Antonov stretched out his hand to lock the collar around Sherlock’s neck, but John’s hand was there first.

“He’s not yours to collar,” John said, low and threatening. The others should have rushed to restrain him from their boss’s mate, but a little dust of Pure Ice in their morning tea had rendered them all as docile as betas, for the time being. Gregori seemed to see the light.

“Fuck you, Watson, I’ll still take you down,” he growled, tossing aside his gun that seemed to be missing its clip.   John didn’t hesitate, just pistol-whipped him, and he went down in the snow. The others cowered back like betas.

“What’s the matter with all of you! I’ll have you all shot! Sherlock, come inside, now!” Antonov shouted. He had managed to snap the diamond collar around Sherlock’s elegant neck and a hand was shoved between Sherlock’s legs, groping violently even as he dragged Sherlock toward a waiting car. Sherlock twisted away, and bit Antonov’s hand hard. Blood ran. It was not a mating bite, and Antonov screamed and threw Sherlock to the ground where he tore at him and seemed determined to actually mount him, right there in the open air with the snow falling faster all around them. Sherlock howled and fought, and John was on them, and threw him aside as if he had been a toy.

Antonov shrieked his fury in Russian, his possessive rage for the omega ultra needing no translation.

They squared off in the snow, Alpha to Alpha. John knew somewhere in his rational brain that he could still lose, that Antonov would take Sherlock and he would be powerless to stop it. The sheer agony of that vision drove him on, until he found himself straddling Antonov, who was laying under him on the snowy ground, beaten to a pulp as he screamed, “Mine!” into his bloody, swollen face. He thought he ought to probably rip Antonov’s balls off next, and the only thing that stopped him was Sherlock, grabbing his arms hard and yanking him up off of the bleeding Alpha. The snow was spotted with crimson spatters, and he was leaking blood from everywhere. Sherlock’s new coat was ruined, he noticed with Alpha satisfaction.

“Mine,” he shouted at Sherlock, and Sherlock looked sadder than he had ever seen him in his short acquaintance with the omega ultra, as Sherlock shook his head and hauled his fist back, and put John’s lights out.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 

 

When John opened his eyes, Sherlock was gone, and he was apparently traveling in the private jet again, the same one that had taken him from London.   Mycroft Holmes was looking down at him from a seemingly great height. The height of the Holmes brothers irritated him, and he immediately sat up and adjusted then tightness in his trousers from even thinking about Sherlock.

He felt at the numerous bandages on his face, on his body.   Someone had doctored him rather competently. He was pretty sure he knew who it was.

“Don’t ask,” Mycroft said with a moue of distaste.  “How do you feel?”

He felt like there was a hole in the middle of his being where Sherlock should be.

“Sherlock,” he said.  “Where’s Sherlock?”

“He’s safe. He doesn’t want to see you. I’m sure you understand. Where do you want to go now?”

“Just tell me he didn’t go with Antonov.   Then I’ll go. It doesn’t matter where. Spartan won’t have me back. Am I going to jail?”

The Black Ice was fading but it wasn’t gone, and the enormity of what he had done was hitting him like a sledgehammer. He smiled. He was glad. He was only sorry he’d had to resort to artificial means like Black Ice to carry it off.

“You’re not going to jail, John. Probably you should, though. I shall have to think carefully what to do with you. You’re rather a dangerous man after all. And no, Sherlock didn’t go with Antonov.”

“He seemed eager enough, in the beginning. I suppose it was you sold him to Antonov,” he said aggressively, ready to start in on Mycroft. He found that his hands were restrained. He grunted and fell back, writhing with Alpha fury.  “Don’t you dare sell him back – not to Antonov, not to anyone. Let him—let him live his life, right?   He’s better than that.”

Mycroft smiled thinly. “My dear, your wits are addled. I don’t think your constitution can really stand the hard stuff. What was it, “Black Ice”? I’d keep away from it in future if I were you. In any event, Sherlock entered a mating contract with Antonov at my direction, it’s true. But not for the reason you imagine. The black diamonds in the Antonov mine are being synthesized to create weaponized lasers. It is the sort of weapon we have all been dreaming of – and Antonov is getting the Russians there first. One laser will be able to take out the whole of London, John. No one will need nuclear weapons anymore.  Imagine that. Just Antonov’s black diamonds.”

“That’s why Sherlock broke into the vault,” John said miserably.

“You didn’t really think he wanted the diamonds, did you, John?”

John hung his head.

“Sherlock stole the plans for Antonov’s latest laser for us from that vault. Now we have it, and now we shall know how to protect England.   If they are civilized, we may even share with the Americans.”

In the end, John asked to be taken back to London. He couldn’t think of anywhere else he wanted to be.   And he suspected that Sherlock Holmes was there too, and although Mycroft wouldn’t tell him anything definite, he wouldn’t deny it either.

John still had a few friends in the Army, and one particular friend in Army intelligence. He explained what he wanted.

“That’s rather hard, but you’re in luck. He’s just signed an affidavit in some murder case. He’s the expert witness, apparently. Something about ash. Peculiar fellow. Especially for an ultra.”

“Address?”

“221b Baker Street.”

 

# # #

 

John stood on the threshold of the door to 221b Baker Street, and considered putting on his pheromone mask.

He didn't.

He knocked with the brass knocker. After a long pause, the door opened and Sherlock Holmes was standing there.

“It’s you,” he whispered, that deep velvet voice that haunted John’s dreams.

“I won’t touch you,” he said.  “But I had to see you again.”

“Come in,” Sherlock said, opening the door wide.

The flat was an appalling mess of forensic specimens, smoking beakers, cups of stale tea abandoned on every surface, and autopsy photos strewn about. Sherlock was wearing one of those robes, and it was already driving him out of his senses.

“I want to know you. I want you to know me. That business in Russia, it wasn’t really me. Or you either, I guess. Mycroft told me why you did it. But if you hadn’t found the plans in the vault, would you have gone with Antonov anyway?”  This was what had kept him up at night.

“If Mycroft told you what it was really about, you should know that I was prepared to do anything to get those plans. Anything at all,” Sherlock said coolly.

“I understand that. And you know I would have done anything to stop you,” John said.  “Even knowing what I know now.”

“I know,” Sherlock said uncomfortably. He turned his back and fiddled with the ends of the tie to his robe, which John refused to believe was some kind of tease.

“I think you already know everything about me, forget what I said a minute ago. Do you understand what this is?”

“Yes,” Sherlock was whispering.  “You’re my Alpha.”

“I’m your Alpha. And that’s a serious problem because you didn’t want Antonov and even after I – well, you told Mycroft you didn’t want to see me. You didn’t come to me. So I figure you don’t want an Alpha at all.   What am I supposed to do with that, Sherlock?”

“It’s not completely true, what you say. . . but I don’t want you to be the kind of Alpha that you’ll be with me. I’m an ultra. There’s no getting away from it. You – we --- had to kill MacKay and you nearly killed Antonov over me. I don’t want to be a house prisoner for the rest of my life just to keep safe. And my suppressants John, they don’t work anymore and I--- I need, John, I do need ---“

“Shhhhh,” John said.  “I get it.” He took Sherlock’s hand that seemed unexpectedly hot in his, and kissed his palm. Sherlock didn’t pull away this time. This made the decision that seemed so hard, easy.

Mycroft had delivered a little package to his door this morning. Blue Ice, the strongest Alpha suppressants known, smoother and stronger even than his military-grade injections. He had thought it was a cynical gesture, but now he recognized it for a wise and even kind one.

“I’m your Alpha, but you need me not to be. And I’m more than willing to deal with that. I want to be. . . what you need. Everything you need. I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t do for you.”  He held out the Blue Ice crystals so that Sherlock would understand.

“I’m taking this. Right now.  And then I’m going to ask you to kiss me. That ought to convince you I’m serious,” he said.   Alphas never asked, they took, or if on the crueler side waited for their omega to beg.

Sherlock’s eyes glowed.  “What about what you need, John,”  he asked seriously.

“You’re everything I need. I don’t need to be an Alpha to know that.”

“Then roll up your sleeve, John,” he said.  “I want to do it for you.”

They both watched as Sherlock expertly melted the crystals and injected the cool blue fluid into John’s veins. John lay back against the sofa and waited as a beta-like calmness cleansed his blood and centered him. But Sherlock was the center. Sherlock watched the change come over him intently.

“Will you kiss me?” John asked, not minding at all that it sounded like begging.

“Wait,” Sherlock said.  Sherlock offered his neck and John took a deep inhale. Still bewitching, still intoxicating and impossible to resist. His cock was hard as iron in less than the space of a heartbeat at the scent of him.   But he didn’t feel like he needed to kill anybody, and he didn’t feel like he needed to attack and subdue his gorgeous omega.

He leaned back and offered his throat, and Sherlock hesitated a long moment before scenting him in return. He felt the nibble of plush lips against his skin. Sherlock was tasting him and he felt a bright flush rush over his skin at the thought. He wanted to bite, to seal their bond, but Sherlock was already drawing back and he instinctively didn’t want to rush. He sent up a prayer of thankfulness for the Blue Ice, keeping him steady and in control. It felt good, he realised with wonder.   More than good. Every moment seemed precious and rare, not something to be snatched and devoured. Still, he wasn’t sure he could always be this patient.

Sherlock was watching him. “It’s like watching a storm roll in,” he said. John wanted to say something poetic in return but all he could say was, “kiss me, already, before I lose my mind,” and Sherlock did.

It was a slow sweep of tongue and lips, everything that John had dreamed of, but it was hard to tell if Sherlock felt the same.

“Do you want this? Really, really want this?”

Sherlock paused, seeming to struggle to articulate his feelings. “I do. But I don’t know if I’m ready. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be an ultra. I’ve always, well, dreaded this. Ultras lose everything, you know.”

John looked very resolute at that. “That’s up to you, when you’re ready, I mean. But . . .”

“But?”

“But I don’t think I can handle this without coming, you’re driving me out of my mind and that’s with my blood all shot up with the Ice. You don’t have to … I mean, you don’t have to touch me.”

He gripped his own cock, gasping at the exquisite frustration. There was no denying that he wanted Sherlock’s hand on him, his mouth too, and everything else. He could see the growing damp spot on Sherlock’s dressing gown, and his chest swelled with a measure of Alpha pride, suppressed though it was. Sherlock felt this, too. He would show him how it was making him feel. He unashamedly stroked himself, slowly under Sherlock’s eye, then faster as the sight of Sherlock’s avid , erotic gaze on him drove him to heights he had never felt before with his own hands. He wanted to push himself up against Sherlock, rut himself and spill all over him, but Sherlock wasn’t touching, and he wanted to prove he could live with his omega’s reticence. He knew without a doubt that Sherlock hadn’t permitted anyone else even this much intimacy.

“I need to come,” he said desperately. His cock was going to detonate.

“Do it,” Sherlock said sharply, gasping in awe to see it the orgasm unfold, shattering John’s body with pleasure, come streaming everywhere. Just as in his fantasy on the train, Sherlock reached his wet palm up to his lips.

“Can I taste, John?” he asked simply, and John nodded and watched him lick delicately with that amazing tongue, and sigh. He opened his legs and John slowly untied his robe to let it fall open. Sherlock turned his face away as John admired the view, lean belly and a long, flushed omega cock pushing eagerly up, elegant legs framing a wet hole, his thighs glistening. Without the Blue Ice he would have instantly dove on his omega with his cock and knotted him until he screamed. Now all he could think of was pleasuring Sherlock with his tongue.

“My turn to taste,” he said roughly, and took Sherlock’s legs falling open as permission to dive in with his tongue. This was heaven, his mouth filled with the sweetest, most rarified omega scent as he licked and sucked with dedication, exulting to feel Sherlock coming apart under his tongue and lips. Without hesitation, he took Sherlock’s cock in his mouth and sucked hard, relishing the feel of his velvety head against the back of his throat, even more the knowledge that Sherlock was watching him do this, and most of all, the sound of him crying out as he came down his throat, those beautiful fingers twisted in his hair.

They panted against the sheets, unsated. But he didn’t feel the drive of heat, just the pull of desire and more than desire, to pleasure his mate.   His heart felt warm and melting inside and he pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s sweat-damped curls.

“This isn’t heat, John, is it?”   Sherlock asked, stroking the bullet scar on his shoulder, and running his lips over it gently, sneaking a taste.

“No, it isn’t,”  John said.

“I’m not actually sure I can have one,” Sherlock said.  “My suppressants wore off, but. . . my body doesn’t seem to need anything more now. What does that mean?”

“I honestly have no idea,” John replied. He really didn’t care, he realised, as long as Sherlock said he had everything he needed. He felt a twinge of undeniable Alpha pride that he had apparently managed to satisfy his blindingly beautiful ultra with his mouth and hands. He had never had any sort of sex with an omega, or beta, even under his suppressants, when he hadn’t spent all of his energy focusing on forcing a knot, and pounding the omega with his cock in an Alpha delirium. This had to be the Blue Ice, but it felt very. . . freeing. He couldn’t imagine taking Sherlock that way—well, not yet, anyway --- it seemed too mindless, crude, even meaningless. He pulled Sherlock tighter.

“I want to find out,” Sherlock said.  “If you’re willing. I know this isn’t exactly what you expected from an omega ultra.”

“It certainly isn’t. It’s much, much better. Of course I’m willing. Are you mad? Didn’t you think I would track you down, no matter where you went?”

Sherlock pressed his nose into the crook of John’s neck, and surprised him by biting. Hard. The bonding bite. Even the Blue Ice couldn’t stop him pushing Sherlock down under him, and pressing a hard bite in his mate’s neck in return, feeling the tang of blood on his tongue.

“I thought you wanted me for my diamonds,” Sherlock said mischievously. Antonov’s diamond collar was thrown on over the top of a human skull on the mantelpiece that looked down over them balefully.

John glowered at the sight of the black diamonds.

“I don’t ever want to see those again. I mean it. Sell them, give them to Mycroft, but they have to go.”

Sherlock arched a little under John’s possessive grip.

“I suppose you’re going to say that sounds like an Alpha,” John said, trying to temper the harshness. His heart felt literally crushed to imagine Sherlock keeping the diamonds, let alone ever wearing them. He contented himself by licking the spot where he had bitten Sherlock.

“Yes – and no,” Sherlock said thoughtfully.  “It sounds like you’re in love with me.”

“How do you do that?” Sherlock saw through him every time.  “I am, you know.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but reached out and knocked the diamond collar to the floor, and kicked it under the sofa with his long foot. Then he distracted John from thinking any more about diamonds by kissing him thoroughly, more demandingly than before.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” John said.

 

 

The End.

Dear readers, your comments and kudos are always so gratefully appreciated! Thanks for reading this adventure. This story is first in the Ultraverse series. Part 2 is called The Big Heat, a Mystrade Mystery. Enjoy! G x


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